


My Hands Covering Both of My Eyes

by SeaCollectsRivers (IrishSkumring)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Coming Out, Francis is a trans man, Gen, Gender Identity, Gender Non-Conforming Character, Getting Together, Happy Ending, James is genderqueer, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Dysphoria, Multi, Non-binary character, Other, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:55:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29714046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishSkumring/pseuds/SeaCollectsRivers
Summary: Francis, who has been living comfortably as a man for over three decades, is having a personal crisis. A personal crisis he thought he had put behind him in the 90s, along with his birth-name and assigned gender. Enter James Fitzjames, who he last saw the night before he went sober.(Or, trans man Francis wants to wear frilly things and makeup sometimes, and that's scarier than anything he's done so far).
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	My Hands Covering Both of My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've kept the academia extremely vague. I did do some shallow research, but it's not the focus on this fic anyway. I put Francis vaguely as a historian and James vaguely as something to do with English lit or drama or both. 
> 
> title from _With my hands covering both of my eyes I am too scared to have a look at you now_ by ~~Fallout Boy~~ Team Me
> 
> enjoy! :)

Francis had found it while tidying out one of those spaces that seemingly filled up with stuff without him adding any to it. It was in a box he recognised as one he'd lugged with him since he moved away from Banbridge, young and full of a life he was finally allowed to live to its fullest. He'd stopped everything he was doing when he found it, and just held the skirt, stroked a fond thumb over the velvet fabric.

He ought to donate it, to some charity shop or other, maybe the trans resource centre around the corner. Or one of his siblings' copious children could like it, wasn't the eighties back in among the teenagers? For some reason, though, he couldn't put the damn thing down. There were no special memories attached to it, it had simply been one of the few clothes he'd hastily thrown into his suitcase before running to catch the bus. He hadn't even disliked it, the same way he'd loathed his hair, his Sunday dress, his school uniform... In fact, he'd been almost fond of this skirt. Maybe that was it? One of the few clothes he had somewhat been able to bear. With slow, dreamlike movements he held the skirt by the waistband, brought it to his own body as if measuring how it would fit around his waist.

It didn't fit. Of course it didn't, he had been nineteen when he last wore the thing. Besides, he didn't wear skirts anymore. No one was making him play-pretend at being a woman these days, there was no need for this. With a sneer he threw the skirt aside, vaguely in the direction of the donation pile. He was being nostalgic, and ridiculous. A weird feeling of unease crept up his arms, closed itself around his throat. With a puff of air too angry to be a sigh he ran his hands over his face, and looked over to where Neptune was laying.

"Come on, boy," he said, moving towards the hall, "let's go for a walk before dinner."

Two days later the skirt was washed and given to the resource centre. Francis tried very hard to forget the feeling of it under his fingers, the not-fit of it around him.

* * *

He hadn't planned to attend the conference, but both his dear friend James Clark Ross and his newer acquaintance Silna had been invited to hold talks, and he was nothing if not supportive.

Ross and he were standing outside the doors to the room where Silna would hold her talk, the hallway filled with people in a break between events, when someone called his name.

"Francis?"

He recognised the voice. With a frown, he turned around. His eyes widened in recognition when he took in the face before him.

"Fitzjames!"

Ross clapped his shoulder. "I'll leave you two to catch up. Be nice, Frank," he added in a low tone, before wandering off with one last squeeze to Francis' shoulder. Francis barely registered this, to busy staring at James Fitzjames. He looked good - of course he did, he always had, but his hair was significantly longer now, and he had grown into the distinctive lines bracketing his mouth.

"How... how are you, James?" He winced. The last time he and James Fitzjames had shared a room, he had yelled at the man in a drunken rage, after months of unprofessional sniping and arguments. They had been at the same university, and had been supposed to work together on a plan for more inter-disciplinary cooperation. They had also detested each other from day one. James probably because Francis had been unbearably rude and contrarian, Francis because... Well, frankly he had been incredibly jealous of James. Of this young, good looking man, the new favourite in Franklin's eye, who so easily got research funding and his lecture job. James represented everything Francis never had managed to be to gain the favour he thought he was due in academia. He might also have been very attracted to James, which had been confusing when his emotions were so tangled up in Sophia Cracroft, and he hadn't quite admitted to himself that he was perhaps not entirely straight.

James, where he stood in front of Francis, looked about as apprehensive as Francis felt, although likely for different reasons. He _had_ been the one to approach Francis, though. Surely he wouldn't have if he didn't want to talk to Francis?

"Good. I'm good. I got a lecture job, actually. English lit, hopefully with tenure soon," said James, while tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He smiled, a small smile a long way from the dazzling grins Francis remembered him with. "And yourself? I heard you, uhm. I heard you got better?"

Francis looked down, fiddled with the badge on his lanyard, wished he had something to anchor his hands with. He settled on putting one behind his back, balled up in a fist. He felt unreasonably more awkward in that position, but kept it there in fear of looking restless. He cleared his throat.

"Yes. Much better. Cured, you could say." He chuckled nervously, cleared his throat again. Looked back at James, who smiled before chewing on the inside corner of his mouth. Lord, but he looked good. Francis flicked his eyes over him, took in new wrinkles at the corners of James' eyes, noted that he was wearing a tasteful brown eyeshadow with some glitter, that his nails were painted a dark reddish-brown that complemented his tie.

A small laugh escaped James, startling Francis to lock eyes with him. "Well, this is about as awkward as I thought it would be. Francis, I'd love to put the past behind us. Would you want to grab a coffee sometime, maybe?"

Francis blinked. Over James' shoulder he caught the eyes of Ross, who was gesturing and moving towards the conference room. "Yes," he answered, before he could give it much thought. "Yes, I'd love to."

James' smile lit up the room around him. "Wonderful! Here, my personal phone number," he took out a business card and a pen, hastily scribbled something on the back, "text me, and we'll set something up, ok?"

Nodding mutely, Francis accepted the card.

"Well, I'll. I'll see you around, Francis. It was good seeing you. Truly." James reached out an arm, which Francis only recognised as the beginning of a hug after he had grabbed the hand for a handshake. Face burning, he mumbled a confirmation and a goodbye, before making his way over to Ross, shoulders hunched. The card he carefully tucked into his wallet, once they were seated.

"I heard no raised voices, so I assume that it went well?" asked Ross.

"I think. Jamie, I think James wants to be friends. With me."

Ross grinned. "I'm glad, Frank! He really isn't half as bad as you made him out to be while you worked together, you know. This could be good for you."

Francis nodded. "I know." After a pause to collect his thought he opened his mouth again, but quickly shut it when Silna was introduced. It was nothing important, anyway. Just his own insecurities.

He would text James later. It'd be good to close another chapter of that time. If nothing else came out of it, his therapist would be proud, at least.

* * *

They met at some independent café James knew of, one of those with black walls and wooden furniture that had sprouted up in the last few years. At least the tables weren't designed to seat ten people at a time.

Francis found he liked it. There was low music playing, something with more rhythm and softly-spoken words than the ambiance music in other places; the coffee wasn't too fancy for him, and they had a take-one-leave-one shelf of books in one corner. It was nice. Cozy. Somehow it didn't entirely fit James' style.

"It was Harry who told me about it, actually," James laughed when Francis remarked on it in his typical too-blunt manner. "Harry Goodsir, I mean. He's working on a paper with Silna about the flora and fauna in Nunavut and how colonialism affect it, did you know?"

Francis nodded. He'd helped Goodsir out: had given him some names from his time in the Arctic, who could help the biologist out. Silna was writing the colonialism part with her background in history and sociology. She had talked about it at the conference.

He decided against mentioning this. Instead he took a sip of his coffee (cortado with a double shot of espresso) and regarded James over the edge of his cup. James was even more devastating in a casual setting. In concession to the heat, he was wearing a loose pink shirt, with a plunging neckline (the buttons stopped around the bottom of his sternum. Francis tried to not think about this). This was tucked into some wide-legged, loose, high waisted trousers ( _Palazzo trousers_ , James had called them). From his ears dangled a pair of golden bees, and the day's nail polish matched his shirt. Across from him Francis felt awkward in his skin, in a way he headn't since he turned 13 and hit puberty.

Francis cleared his throat.

"James, I wanted to apologise–" James did a dismissive wave with his hand, but Francis marched on, determined, "-no, please. I wanted to apologise for my general behaviour towards you, but especially that last night."

"Francis, really, I've put it far behind me–"

"I still think you deserve an apology. I don't want to ignore this history between us, James. It'll only fester. So, I am sorry. Truly."

James swallowed visibly, his fingers fluttered around his mug (cappuccino, one shot, oat milk). "I was not wholly innocent in that whole debacle, I think. If you insist on apologising to me, I shall offer you the same."

Francis frowned, which was apparently all James needed to continue. "I know I kept dismissing your input. John – Franklin – had my ear, and he was very good at packing his dismissal of you in these kind, fatherly concerns. It's no excuse, I know, I was a grown man even then, but I was... eager to please, I suppose. And..." he sighed, contrived, "I suppose I was a bit personally hurt as well."

"As you should have been," said Francis with a raised eyebrow.

"No, no. Before our work began, when we first met. I rather admired you long before John introduced us, did you know?"

Francis shook his head.

"I'd read all your papers, your research with James Clark Ross, your essays on human nature and exploration. But then we met, and… well, you remember." James gave a brittle smile. Francis lowered his eyes in shame.

He remembered well. He had been angry at Franklin, for finding a new person to nurture, for refusing Francis his due respect at every turn, for getting him stuck with an upstart. All that anger he had transferred to James Fitzjames, who he saw as pompous, overblown, too young, too lucky. And when they had finally met in person… James, handsome, _beautiful_ , well versed in academia politics and able to charm any crowd, had irked Francis in a very specific way; a way Francis worked hard to ignore in the years they worked together. So he had sneered at James, complained about him to any of his friends who would listen, torn his research apart. The alcohol didn't help, that was true, but there was something about him that always burrowed under his skin.

"I was rather put out, you know. It felt like whatever I did, you weighed me and found me wanting. And lord Francis, you had to be devastatingly handsome while you did."

Francis almost spilled his coffee. "Huh?"

"I think I developed a small crush on you that never really went away, despite our arguments," laughed James. He put his chin in his hand, propped up by the elbow on the table. Francis felt a traitorous blush climb up his neck as he was looked over by James' warm eyes. "You're still quite handsome, you know."

Francis rolled his eyes, in a vain effort to calm himself. "Ah now, James. No need to flatter. I've apologized already." James laughed again, showing of his slightly crooked teeth, and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. Something in Francis' stomach fluttered, and he found it much easier to let it live than he had some three years ago.

They continued their conversation, the flow easier now, as if a block had been lifted. They talked about the changes in their lives (James had accidentally got a cat, Francis talked about Neptune), about new research, students, academia politics and gossip. Francis told him about his and Blanky's weekly Bad Movie Night, which amused James to no end. They carefully avoided talk of the Franklins, but it never felt like a looming unacknowledged presence. Eventually both their coffees were gone, as was the almond croissant James had bought and insisted he share with Francis.

There was a lull when Francis' brain decided to operate without his input. "I think I was very attracted to you, actually."

James eyes, which had been wandering around the room, shot to him. "I'm sorry?"

"Back then. I wasn't... wholly out, to myself. Not at all, really. And I had certain... preoccupations." He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

"Sophia Cracroft."

"....yes. Sophia Cracroft."

James frowned. "So you... what, decided to pull my pigtails?"

"You just admitted to the same!"

"I reacted to _your_ _actions_ , Francis! I was unfair, yes, but I wasn't treating you like I was in secondary school with no idea how to process my own feelings!"

Francis sputtered, embarrassed and indignant, only stopping when he noticed James _giggling_ behind his hand. "We were a pair, were we not? God. If only we could have been normal about everything."

"I'd say we're managing that pretty well now, even if it is a few years late," answered Francis.

"I suppose we are."

They sat for a little longer, until James said he had a meeting he couldn't run late for. Once outside, James pointed in the opposite direction of where Francis would be going. "My tube stop is this way."

For several moments, Francis was incredibly tempted to lie, say he was going that way too. He had enjoyed himself, and he was scared this was it, now that they had cleared the air.

"I'm this way," he said instead, nodding in the right direction. James' eyes seemingly flickered with disappointment. Francis shook it off.

"Well," James said, a smile once more in place, "I had an excellent time."

Francis smiled back. "Me too," he answered, meaning it with his entire being. They both visibly hesitated, unsure of their standing, before Francis stuck out a hand. "Friends, James?"

James' shoulders relaxed, and his smile softened, before he accepted the hand. "Friends would be delightful." Right before Francis let go, James pulled at him, not forcefully, and leaned down to place a quick kiss on Francis' cheek. James was grinning when he leaned back.

"Keep in touch, Francis!" he said, as he waved goodbye and walked away. Francis was frozen to the spot outside the café long after James had turned a corner and disappeared. He had a smile on he wore for the rest of the day.

* * *

"This one, Frank."

"Jamie-"

"Nope! No wriggling away. You promised me. I help you proofreading your writings, you let me dress you for Sophia's charity gala."

Francis sighed and gave Ross a half-glare, before reluctantly accepting the clothes he was holding out.

They'd been at it for what felt like the entire Saturday, but a quick glance at his watch revealed it had only been two hours. _Only_.

Francis changed in the dressing room with slow, mechanical movements. He'd never liked buying new clothes, especially not formal wear. There was an old suit in his closet he thought still fit him fine, but Ross had been adamant he needed something better for the event. _You ought to make something of an effort for her, Frank. For your friendship, you know?_ He was glad he had accepted Ross' offer to help though - the man had a better eye for colour and cut than he, and revelled in the chance besides.

Once dressed, he gave the mirror a wary look, and grimaced. The tux was fine. It was a lovely deep blue colour, shimmering purple in the light when he turned. The peaked collar was in black satin, and the jacket wasn't too tight. It was tighter than his normal clothes, though - Francis had a hard time shaking the need from his youth for hiding his body in looser clothes. He scrubbed his face with a hand, turned away from the mirror. Might as well show Ross, this was his hard work after all.

"Frank!" Ross grinned, "You look great, old man. I knew that colour would work well on you."

Francis narrowed his eyes sceptically. Ross didn't see, or chose to ignore, as he appraised his old friend. He was clearly pleased with this choice, and when he said Francis should buy it, Francis agreed in a bid to be done with the excursion.

Ross wanted to buy some new clothes for himself before they left. This meant Francis had to follow him around while he plucked out items, occasionally fetching different sizes or colours of whatever he was trying on, which suited Francis nicely. As they wandered, his eyes caught on a mannequin in the women's department. On it was a loose navy-coloured chiffon blouse. The half-sleeves were sheer, and from the left shoulder was a smattering of rhinestones, like stars on a night sky. It looked soft to the touch, and wonderful to wear, billowy without hiding the body underneath, and Francis _wanted_.

He was suddenly terrified.

"Frank?" Francis didn't react, still entranced. "Oh, that's beautiful. Ann would like it, I think."

Francis could only nod mutely. His jaw was tense, and he tried to relax it before something seized up. His eyes, now that he was out of his intense focus, flittered about, avoiding the mannequin. Ross, steadfast as ever, glanced over to him. "Do you want to buy it, Frank? You've the money for it, it's not like you splurge on clothes often."

At his words, Francis could feel the pit in his stomach widen. The tickling tendrils of anxiety worked their way up his arms, settled on his shoulders, made him tense up. He had to clear his throat twice before he could answer, and even then his voice was strained. "No. Just, reminded me, 's all."

"Of what?"

He panicked. "James. Fitzjames, I mean."

The aura of concern practically melted from Ross, and Francis could _feel_ the teasing grin he had plastered on. "Clothes remind you of _James_ _Fitzjames_ enough to stop you dead in your tracks, do they? Well then, old man, I'd say that coffee meeting went very well indeed."

Francis grumbled and grabbed Ross' arm to drag him out, vaguely hoping he had paid for what he was holding. "Let's just leave."

"Oh but _Frank_ , we should look around more! I'd be _delighted_ to see what else reminds you of _James_ _Fitzjames_."

"You're the one who encouraged me to be friendly to him!"

"So I could be in the same room as you without feeling like I was suffocating! This is _much_ better. Ann is going to have a field day, I cannot wait to tell her."

Francis was beet red the entire way back to the streets. Ross practically cackled until Francis threatened to invoke Ann Coulman's anger by not showing up for Sunday dinner.

* * *

Sundays were reserved for the Ross-Coulman brood and their family dinner, but Monday nights were for Francis, Thomas Blanky, too much take away, and the best bad movies available. It was really just an excuse to see each other regularly, now that the concerts and pubs of their youth wasn't really an option anymore - Blanky dismissed concerts as a young man's game (despite Francs knowing several metal heads well into their 60s still attending - but he knew Blanky's leg gave him trouble when he stood for too long), and pubs weren't really fun without the alcohol.

As they rarely actually paid attention to the movie, it wasn't unusual for them to just chat over it. Right then, Francis wished he had the excuse of watching the film.

"Ross texted me. Says you're gone on that Fitzjames fella." Francis promised himself to bring up some truly embarassing tales from his and Ross' youth next Sunday. "He's right gleeful about it too, if the amount of emojis are anything to go by."

Francis rolled his eyes. "It's nothing."

"Mmh, I'm sure." Blanky was in his usual position, back leaned against one end of the couch and legs slung over Francis' lap. Which also meant he was near enough for Francis to steal the pizza slice from his hand. Blanky only laughed, delighted that he had apparently hit a nerve.

"Since when do you and James Ross text each other, anyway."

"Since our best friend checked into rehab without telling us," hummed Blanky. Francis, never good at talking about that time, simply squeezed his knee. Blanky smiled that fond smile of his, which let him know there were truly no bad feelings between them.

He and Blanky had transitioned together, practically. Had helped each other with the maze of medical transition in the early 90s, with finding a community, with after-care following major surgeries. Blanky's beard had come in first, and Francis had been wildly jealous, until he grew his own and found he hated it. They'd been through a lot together, him and Blanky.

He thought about the blouse. The velvet skirt. James' painted nails.

"Jamie insisted I buy a new tux," he blurted.

"He said. Sophia's thing, yeah?"

"Mh. Not sure I want to go."

Blanky took the hand resting on his knee, played with Francis' fingers. It was soothing. Familiar.

"Because of Sophia, or the tux?"

Francis rubbed his chin. "Both. I haven't been in the same room as Sophia for more than five minutes since we broke it off."

"And you hate formal wear. Well, I can tell you, you look a damn sight better'n me in a tux." Francs scoffed. "You do! Always wore suits well, you did. First and only time I ever saw Tom Jopson blush was at that costume party the department threw, you in your historical navy uniform. And you'll only regret not going."

At this Francis grimaced. He was still fond of Sophia, always would be, and he doubted she hated him - she was friendly when they talked, and she had invited him. But charity galas were not his idea of fun.

Blanky nudged him. "Go to the damn fundraiser. You'll have a better time than you think."

* * *

Francis was having a bad time.

Sophia had greeted him warmly when he entered, which had left him hopeful for the night, but when she left him to greet others he quickly realised he didn't know anyone else there. He had never been good at mingling, especially not without even the pretense of a shared field to help him. Now he was stood by the balcony doors, a glass of alcohol free cider ("Honestly, it's just apple soda," Sophia had said with a smile, "but it's almost better than the wine. And definitely better than water.") in his hand, fervently wishing he still smoked so he had an excuse to go outside for a spell. Maybe he could get away with leaving before the dinner? Likely not, Sophia had genuinely been happy to have him there, he didn't think she'd appreciate his fleeing. Their friendship was still somewhat fragile, he'd hate to ruin it now.

A shift in the crowd heralding the arrival of yet another guest started by the entrance. Francis heard Sophia exclaim something, obviously happy to see this particular person. He couldn't see anything over the crowd before him, but he doubted it was anyone he knew anyway. With a sigh he took a sip of his cider - only to nearly choke on it as the crowd parted and Francis saw the new guest.

James Fitzjames lit up as he caught sight of Francis. Francis, on his end, was pretty sure his mouth was more than a little agape. James looked _gorgeous_. He was wearing a long, elegant dress, clearly made for him or someone like him given the lack of a bust. It was white, and embroidered with gold sea-stars. The sleeves were long and loose, except for a band around his wrist, which gave the impression of those old swashbuckler shirts. There was barely a neckline - a surprisingly modest dress, all around - as the collar wound around his throat like a choker, with only a slit at his chest leading down to the wide band around his waist. Francis wanted to sink his hands into the billowing skirt, and to his horror he wasn't entirely sure it was for indecent reasons.

As soon as James reached him, he was enveloped in a hug. He fought to not close his eyes as the subtle floral scent of James' perfume hit him. Before he knew it, James was leaning away, all smiles still. Francis swallowed.

"James. Hello."

"Hello, Francis. You look good!"

Francis looked down at himself, grimacing. He didn't feel any better wearing it now than when he had tried it on - he felt like it pinched n all the wrong places, despite Ross' insistence that the size was correct - and James' impeccable style once more put him slightly to shame.

He felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see James smile warmly at him. "Really. You carry yourself well in a tux."

"Thank you. You look-" his jaw worked, trying to find the appropriate words, "-incredible, James."

"Do you like it? My sister-in-law designed it, she has a botique in Brighton." James gave a twirl, smile still in place when he stopped and locked eyes with Francis.

"She's very talented."

They fell silent. Francis could see James' smile becoming more strained as the seconds passed, his hands fidgeting. He probably wanted to get back to the main party, to laugh and dazzle the crowd with his stories and his wit. Francis found he really didn't want James to leave - he was the only one he knew there, after all, besides Sophia.

Just as he was about to ask some inane, vacuous question, James started talking. "I never took you for a gala person, Francis. Would it be very rude to ask why you're here?"

This startled a barking laugh from Francis. "No, you're right. I'm not made for these high-end fancy events. Sophia invited me. I'm not expect me to participate in the auction, but there _is_ an authentic nineteenth century sextant among the items."

"Ah, vintage naval equipment. How to lure a Crozier out of his burrow," grinned James. Francis laughed, happy to note it was entirely genuine. It felt good, to be able to joke with James. To be teased by him, without that easily irritated temper of his rising. Without feeling like James was a grain of sand under his tongue. _Now he's a pearl,_ he almost thought to himself. He threw that away before it could fully form. No need to get overly sentimental.

"And yourself? Lecturers do not make enough to attend these things, usually. No offence," he added, as something of an afterthought.

"Hah! None taken. You would know, after all. No, I'm here on behalf of my brother." At Francis' inquisitive sound, he elaborated. "William Coningham. He's my foster-brother, technically, the only son of the people who raised me. Practically blood, though."

Ah, James' complicated family history. He did know of his brother: a wealthy art curator, the kind it would make sense to invite to a charity gala of this scale.

"He gets ill easily," continued James, "and he's adamant that London air does not sit well with him, so he usually sends me in his stead. Plus, it gives Elizabeth a chance for some free advertising." At this, he smoothed a hand down the skirt of his dress. Francis swallowed. He was overcome with a want to reach out, to touch the fabric of the dress. Not just because it was James wearing it - though the thought of putting his hand on the small of James' back was a tempting one - but he wanted to know what it felt like, between his fingers. Wanted to feel it flow around his legs, the freedom of air between his legs while they were still covered... He shook himself, forced his gaze up to meet James', who looked vaguely amused.

"You really do look well, James. You always have, but this. Well, I never imagined-"

James gained a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Oh, you've imagined me, have you, Francis Crozier?"

Francis felt a warm blush run up his neck. Damn James, he still knew what buttons to push. James laughed, far from unkindly, and took Francis' arm to tuck his own hand into the crook of it. "I'm teasing, Francis. You do look adorable all flushed. Come on, I think dinner is starting soon. Sophia said she put us at the same table, figured you'd appreciate a familiar face."

He willed himself to move forward, pleased at James' words but still indignant at his traitorous pale skin. As they walked towards the tables in the main room, he casually laid his other hand on the one James had tucked into his arm. He forced himself to keep his gaze ahead, as he allowed his thumb to stroke it once, twice. James' skin was soft, as he thought. As was the fitted part of the sleeve that hugged James' wrist, which his thumb just about reached. James squeezed his arm, and Francis allowed himself a private smile.

* * *

The dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Francis would even say he had fun, if pressed. Their table partners were easy to talk to, the food was good, Francis made James laugh five times (he absolutely kept count). Francis never felt odd for staying silent, he even had a lengthy discussion with another at their table about the history of the science around magnetism.

James insisted on taking some air before the auction was due to start, and so Francis found himself gladly dragged along to the balcony he had been loitering by earlier. The air outside was heady, still in that half-light of late summer evenings. The event premises were a little outside of London: the balcony overlooked a kind of glade, from where thousands of insects could he heard in susurrus; from here, they could see the glittering lights of the city, beautiful and tempting. Francs couldn't quite tear his eyes away from James to admire it.

James had let go of Francis' arm as soon as they hit fresh air. He had stretched his arms out and done a little twirl, as if energised by the night itself. Now he turned towards Francis and smiled. "I remembered another reason why you annoyed me so, back then."

Francis immediately lost his good humour. He thought they had buried the axe? James apparently still held some grudges.

"Oh, hush, nothing so bad. A mark in your favour, actually." Francis lifted an eyebrow, sceptical. James continued, "Do you remember Thomas Jopson? Your R.A.?"

"Of course, they practically ran my life for me for a spell. They've done well for themself. In publishing, now." At this James pointed in his direction, as if Francis had proven him right on something, which only confused him further.

"That's what I mean. You always used their pronouns, even when- Remember that awful meeting with Barrow and the rest? You were ruthless, you refused to continue until they used Jopson's correct pronouns."

"Of course. It's their pronouns."

"Exactly! Even at your most cruel, when you got really personal, you never slipped up. You never remarked on my more unorthodox fashion choices, never brought up my makeup, my hair. Never! And I was so angry, because you wouldn't even let me direct some righteous gay anger in your direction!" This made Francis snort, unwillingly. Thankfully James only seemed amused, not truly indignant.

The knot at the centre of this untangled for Francis, in a true moment of sudden clarity. "James," he began, "you do know that I'm a transgender man, yes?"

"What- no, no I didn't- _really?_ "

Francis nodded. He regretted that he hadn't thought to grab a glass of that cider, so he had something to hide his smile into. As it was, he tried to control himself. The twitch in his lips told him he wasn't doing a great job.

James' shoulder sank, as he leaned back on the railing. He had one arm slung over his waist, the elbow of the other resting on it. His mouth was hidden in his hand, and he had turned away from Francis, who suddenly felt worried. With a decisive mental shake, he loosened that feeling and waved it away. No need to be worried about James, he was sure. The last tail of the worry disappeared as he heard James laughing.

"What is it? James?"

"Sorry, sorry. I am usually better at this, you know. Reacting to people coming out. I've dealt with quite a few, I have that kind of face." Francis huffed, but didn't disagree. James turned to look at him again, assessing him. Francis almost squirmed, but refused to let himself feel uncomfortable. Not here, not now. With slow movements he walked over, leaned against the railing close to James, and nudged him carefully with an elbow.

"Dunno why I assumed you knew. Not many do. Suppose I kind of hoped you saw me as your own kind. So to speak."

"You're stealth?"

"Mhm. Excluding my family and doctor, five others know."

"Oh. Well, thank you for telling me, I appreciate that you trust me enough for that."

Francis grinned, good-naturedly. "Is that your usual line, so?"

James huffed a laugh, nudged him back in retaliation. "I really didn't mean to laugh, I just thought how differently things could have gone if we had seen each other better."

"Hm. We might have only detested each other more, you know. I didn't like you any _better_ for wearing makeup, it just didn't make me like you _l_ _ess_."

"Hah! You may be right. Wrong time for us to meet, I suppose."

After some heartbeats of allowing the moment to settle, he sighed and leaned his head on Francis' shoulder. Francis expected his body to tense up, but instead he felt at ease. Comfortable.

"James?"

"Hmm?"

 _Are you trans?_ he wanted to ask. Or maybe, _have I read you correctly?_ Or even, _I saw this beautiful blouse the other day and I'm scared shitless of what that means, please help me._

"The auction's probably starting."

"Oh!" James straightened. "Yes, of course. We're here for noble reasons, mustn't forget. And your sextant, of course," he nodded, walked towards the balcony doors. Francis was frozen to his spot at the railing.

"Are you a man?" he called, despite himself, and cringed internally. Sophia had never been wrong about his awful timing.

James seemed to take it in stride, though, answering as if he'd asked for the time. "Not entirely, no. I do use he and him pronouns, though. I'm just not really a man."

Francis allowed himself to relax, to uncurl himself from his position at the railing to follow after James. "Non-binary, like Jopson?"

"I've always said genderqueer with a small helping of man, myself. I think Jopson and I think of our own genders very differently." Francis wrote himself a mental note to not refer to James as a man. Quetly, he filed the concept away to gnaw on later. For now he let James take his arm once more, and if their hands migrated to instead tangle their fingers together, neither of them remarked on it as they made their way back to the main room.

* * *

At the end of the evening, Francis was the proud new owner of an authentic vintage sextant, and James was more than a little tipsy.

"How are you getting home?" Francis asked. They were on their way to the car park with the other guests, every one in high spirits.

James had a flush high on his cheeks that suited him quite well. "Uber, I thought. It's not too far."

"I could drive you."

"Oh!" Before James could answer properly, he was interrupted by someone calling both their names. Francis, recognising Sophia's voice immediately, smiled. It did feel good to be on good terms with her again.

"Sophia, hello." She kissed them each on their cheek. Her eyes were shimmering like they did when she'd been drinking, and she was radiating happiness, obviously pleased with how the night went. "Good turnout?" Francis asked.

"Better than! A roaring success, I should think. My clients will be very happy, this should tide them over nicely." She looked between them, saw their linked arms, and smiled widely. "I see you two are speaking again."

Francis looked down, bashful. His stomach fluttered again as he felt James pressing closer into his side. "Francis and I had a conversation and found we had both been acting rather immaturely," he said, uncharacteristically contrite. Sophia snorted.

"Well, I could've told you that, James. Are you leaving?" Francis nodded, just as James said Francis would drive him home. He couldn't quite keep his eyes off James' face as he talked. He snapped out of it as Sophia reached up to hug him properly.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself, Francis. I'm so very glad you came," she said. Francis smiled at her, kissed her cheek.

"I had a lovely time, Sophia, thank you."

They locked eyes for a moment, before Sophia took a deep breath and stepped back. "I'll let you go, then. Do keep in touch, both of you!"

They said their goodbyes, and soon were at Francis' car. James was right - the ride to his place wasn't long at all. A beautiful Edwardian terraced house, which seemed beyond James' salary.

"William," he explained, ruefully. "He's two years younger than me, but he's always treated me as his younger brother."

"Taken care of you, you mean."

"I suppose so."

"As you deserve." James gave him a look, and Francis flushed as he realised what he'd said. A smile slowly spread on James' face, which only served to make Francis more nervous. He hastily parked the car and got out. There was no need, really - Francis could just stay in the car, make sure James got safely inside, and drive off home. He found he wanted to follow James to his door, though. He wasn't entirely ready for the night to end just yet.

James unlocked his door, but didn't open it. He turned to Francis behind him, a determined look in his eye. "Would you like to come up, Francis?"

He blinked. "For... coffee?"

"If you want," shrugged James.

Francis worked his jaw, before blurting, "Yes. No! I mean. Fuck."

"I wasn't about to be so blunt about it, but yes, that was my general idea." James sounded amused, but there was something cagey to his tone. Francis quickly joined him on the top step, took his arms in his hands and stroked them soothingly. He held eye contact as he carefully chose his words.

"I meant, I would like to not rush this. Maybe another coffee first? Or dinner, even?"

James smiled, widely. "Are you asking me out, Francis?"

"I believe I am, yes."

James didn't answer immediately, holding his eyes long enough for Francis to become worried, before he leaned in and kissed his cheek. Francis' hands travelled down James' arms to take hold of his hands. "I'd love to have dinner with you," said James, finally. They looked at each other again. James bit his lip, before he brought Francis' hand to his lips, let go of them, and quickly opened the door to slip inside. "Call me then, Francis. Tomorrow?"

Francis nodded, caught up in the sudden movements of James, who only winked and closed the door. A loud exhale escaped from Francis, as he craned his neck back and tried to calm himself down. There was a giddy smile he couldn't have stopped if he tried breaking out on his face, as he brought his hand up and covered his mouth with it. Shaking his head, he jumped down the steps and into his car.

The ride back to his own flat felt much shorter than it actually was. He hadn't felt this punchy since he first was referred to as sir by a cashier. His flat was empty, Neptune no doubt charming the Ross children even at this late hour, but it didn't feel as lonely at it normally would have.

**Author's Note:**

> -William Coningham was an art collector in real life!  
> -Off-the-rack tuxedos? Sure look. He's not made of money.  
> -[James' dress at the fundraiser](https://64.media.tumblr.com/dd397e5675ac671be8014479376b0eef/b8022edaa3124ff4-35/s540x810/77f2c380734783387056ed1400747470d1ccf64d.jpg)  
> -i drew somewhat from how my irish friends speak when writing Crozier's dialogue. unfortunately all my friends are from the Rebel County, not the north, so it's probably still not entirely right lol  
> -I don't mean to imply that being trans = automatically not nb-phobic. but James is operating under the impression that Francis is cis, and when they worked together that he was straight too. so. you know. 
> 
> [my tumblr](https://sea-collects-rivers.tumblr.com/)  
> 
> 
> kudos welcomed, comments encouraged <3


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